Starry Night
by thebadsamaritan
Summary: "If John was addicted to danger, then Sherlock was addicted to appreciation, and it seemed so phenomenally improbable, yet fortunate that those two had managed to find each other that a spectator might suspect a stroke of fate behind it all."


(Author's Note: Written for an artwork by the wonderful Olivia: anabundanceoframen[.]tumblr[.]com/post/20922888538/but-its-the-solar-system)

Starry Night

The taste of adrenaline still subtle in his mouth, his legs still burning from running after Sherlock for ten bloody blocks and his favourite jacket ruined by a knife he would not have made the acquaintance of had it not been for Sherlock's tireless claims of "It's for science!", John Watson, for the first time since meeting Sherlock Holmes and simultaneously becoming such a big part of his life that the two of them could not possibly be separated again, began to question whether it was really worth it.

Did all this chasing, the transient excitement of a gun in his hand and the trigger cold beneath his finger, to the reasonable mind, justify the less glamorous aspects of life as Sherlock's colleague? How could he overlook the countless occurrences on which Sherlock had insisted on keeping him from work, from dates, hell, from shopping – briefly speaking, from life as a normal citizen altogether? Did those few perks really outweigh the, admittedly, plenty of perils John had apparently agreed to when moving in with Sherlock?

The answer was no. Of course they did not. But since when did John Watson possess a reasonable mind?

God, he loved it. Every second of being with Sherlock felt like a second more of for once spending his life like he wanted to, a second on fire and a second so rapidly over that, of course, he needed another. He would gladly give all his seconds to this unique cause, this quest to investigate as many murders as possible, if that meant that the glowing happiness in his chest that had become almost permanent since he had moved in with Sherlock would never leave. With a resigning yet subtly content expression, John finally caught up to Sherlock, still breathing heavily and placing his hands against his legs while he caught his breath, listening to Sherlock's low ramblings about the killer's possible motive and if they should catch him this evening or let him continue for a few days, simply to observe the pattern he maintained because, boy, was it _fascinating_. Sure, sometimes John did not understand his friend's brilliant mind (well, most of the time, actually), but he most definitely appreciated it. Even though some of his ideas were utterly daft.

"Sherlock. We are not going to let this psychopath roam London for another week." Sherlock's expression changed from enthralled to upset to accepting in a matter of seconds, and then it was rooftop chasing, shortcuts and pitfalls all over again. John was pretty certain that he would never get tired of this.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Once the killer had been caught and safely escorted away by a rather dumbfounded Detective Inspector Lestrade (of course it had been the cleaner; was Lestrade actually that dumb or was this whole case just an instance of make-belief stupidity?), Sherlock stopped. His brain, breathing and speech slowed down a bit and he was officially between cases again. Earlier this year, he would have 1) smoked a dozen cigarettes, 2) soliloquised and 3) thought about the perishability of it all. But not today. Today, there was another person next to him, someone to share the excitement and chagrin his job entailed, and, most importantly, to do that thing Sherlock loved so much and that kept him from adding another nicotine patch to his forearm.

"Brilliant."

Right into the pleasure centre. If John was addicted to danger, then Sherlock was addicted to appreciation, and it seemed so phenomenally improbable, yet fortunate that those two had managed to find each other that a spectator might suspect a stroke of fate behind it all - would it not have been for that, they might have had to spend the rest of their lives in dull routine or self-destructive recklessness. Still. Living with John did not mean being adored 24/7, but did sometimes ensue those reproachful looks he liked giving when discovering yet another lack in Sherlock's general knowledge or when coming across Sherlock's emotional clumsiness at inappropriate instances.

"The solar system, Sherlock. "My very evil mummy just sat upon Nathan's potty!" ... well, might have to change it to her sitting on Nathan." Sherlock only huffed and buried his hands in his pockets. Now was not the time to argue about the order of the planets. Had it been up to Sherlock, that topic would never arise again. (And why would a mother sit on her son's friend or his potty anyway? Mums did not do such things. Delete.) Next to Sherlock, John went awfully quiet for a moment, and Sherlock turned his head to verify whether he had somehow upset him again but, instead of a disgruntled John, found his companion's face turned towards the sky with an expression that had pure inspiration written all over it.

At first, he did not understand. Not understanding confused him, and his only just rested brain began trying to find the reason for John's bliss, started working harder than it had to for most of his cases, but still did not succeed. It was only the sky. What was so special about it?

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

"You know, the thing about stars is just that they're so… unique. There isn't one star that looks exactly like another, and yet when we look up at the sky, at first glance all we see is this flood of tiny lights. They're so overarching, and… this makes me sound like an embarrassing sentimentalist."

"Yes, it does."

"You prick."

They sat in silence, and Sherlock pondered John's words, turned them over in his head and tried to see sense in this accumulation of vowels and consonants. About halfway through, he realised his mistake. When one studied an object, the most valuable information did not come from second-hand reports about its features, but from actually looking at it. Sherlock raised his head. He needed to unravel the mystery of the stars, why they have always made and would continue on making people sentimental. Just a mass of glowing dots. Some brighter, some smaller, some in weird constellations.

And there, at midnight, perched on a bank next to his best and only friend, Sherlock Holmes came to a realisation. It was not the stars, but the memories one made and connected to them.

"John."

"Yes?"

It was difficult overcoming his alexithymia, but Sherlock Holmes had already solved the mystery of the stars – some problems expressing his feelings were not going to get the better of him. What did one normally say to express affection?

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Being my friend."

"Oh. S'alright."

Yes. Perfect.


End file.
